If I Have To Die
by Ashleopard
Summary: Ron - a career from District 2 - has accepted his gruesome fate, and can't seem to figure out why a strange girl from Distrct 7 hasn't. Hermione can't understand why Ron has given up before the games even begin. HP/HG Crossover; Rated T for swearing/gruesome content.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, everyone! It's summer, and y'know what that means? No more blaming school and homework for me procrastinating on writing? Hell yeah! Anyway, I'm not going to bore you with too much talk at the beginning of this; I'll leave the small talk for the end. All you need to know about this fic right now: Romione, Hunger Games, drama. Now that you're excited, I'll see you on the other side!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own** _ **The Hunger Games**_ **or** _ **Harry Potter**_ **. If I did, I'd obviously be making this all canon. Somehow.**

 **Chapter One**

 **Ron's POV**

Through the compartment window the world speeds past, so fast that I can only make out the blur of sun-heated rock and sand. The train's whistle sounds from somewhere far away, but its screech is almost hidden beneath the everlasting chugging and thumping of the wheels. There are footsteps echoing through nearby compartments and the faint buzz of human voices, but otherwise the atmosphere remains; repeating in a constant metronome-like fashion.

Maybe it's the rhythm that's keeping me so calm – the sheer simplicity of it comforting me in my first moments of death. Well, maybe not death entirely, but as far as I'm concerned it may as well be _the beginning of the end,_ a more poetic person might call it. But I'm not poetic, and I know, from the bottom of my heart, that I am going to die.

Okay, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic. Technically I always had a mark on me; raised by a farmer who was waiting for just the right time to harvest me. But today is the day it all comes into perspective – I am, in fact, going to die, and soon. There is no easier way to put it, so I don't bother trying.

A rap on my door pulls my attention away from the window. "Dinner in five minutes," comes the voice of my escort – a mousy little man named Peter Pettigrew. "Don't be late."

I grunt my acknowledgment, not really caring if he hears or not. The landscape that has been consoling me outside is shifting. The rock formations are becoming smaller and patches of drying grass larger. The change makes my stomach clench. I stand up and start to pace anxiously. _Bloody hell, pull yourself together!_ I tell myself as I feel my hands beginning to tremble. _You knew this was going to happen – you_ volunteered _for Merlin's sake! Just suck it up and get your arse out there before Crouch comes in to get you himself._

Taking a deep breath, I gather my composure and exit my compartment, heading a few cars down to where the delicious smell of a cooked meal is wafting from. When I enter, I find that I'm the last to arrive.

My mentor smiles at me in a way that most people wouldn't quite consider a smile, but that I've learned to recognize from countless days of training. "Decided to join us?" he says. His brow is crooked, giving him an almost challenging sort of aura. It would seem that I've caught him in one of his better moods.

"You know me, never one to miss out on food," I say with a smirk as I take my seat between him and Lavender Brown - my female counterpart. She giggles, but that means nothing. She giggles at everything.

"So, do you two know your strategies?" Crouch asks, and Lavender actually laughs out loud.

 _Everything._

"Of course, Barty!" she exclaims, smiling past me. "We get in there, and we win."

"I think he meant the finer details," I mutter around a spoonful of some thick, creamy soup. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but it sure is delicious.

"Oh." Lavender hesitates for a moment. "We haven't discussed that yet."

"And that's what we're here to talk about!" Lavender's mentor - Rita Skeeter - exclaims. She has an odd sneer across her face that I know accompanies a plan. "We need to find the best strategies to show the sponsors you're better than everyone else!"

"And to give them a reason to support you," Barty adds. "This is serious business - the sort of thing that could determine your life or death in the arena. We either do a good job now or pay for it later."

"I think I'll take a frivolous approach," Lavender says, and I almost choke on my soup from trying not to laugh. "That way I can surprise them later on just when they're starting to realize."

Rita praises her but I hear Barty mumble something along the lines of "Shouldn't be too hard to pull off". He takes a roll from the bread basket and slices it in two before speaking. "What about you, Ron? Ideas?"

"I've been thinking," I say - that's not a lie - "but I haven't come up with anything." That's the lie; I know exactly what I'm going to do. As everyone expects, I'm going to take my rightful place in the snobby, sneaky brats known as the 'careers'. I will hang out with them and pretend to play tough guy until I reach my final, grotesque fate.

"Well, you'll need to think of something, and quick," Barty growls as he indifferently butters his roll. "The tribute parade is coming up and we want a start on figuring out how you're going to present yourself."

"I will," I promise him, returning my full, undivided attention to my meal. I hear Lavender beginning to drone on in the background but ignore her. I'll worry about parades and costumes and presenting myself later because, right now, all I really want to do is get a cup of that hot cocoa from the other side of the table.

/

A few hours pass. I sit, unwillingly, on a couch. I am seated with Barty, Rita, Lavender, and Peter in front of the television as we watch the recap of the different reapings from earlier today. So far we're up to District 4 and, from what I can tell, this is going to be an interesting year. There's a scrawny kid named after a constellation and a girl with a weird name from 1 and a thin guy with glasses with a part-Veela from 4. In all honesty, the tributes from 3 looked like they would last longer, but hey, who knows? There's a pretty solid chance that none of us will win anyway.

District 5 presents us with a teary-eyed boy with baby fat and a frail-looking blonde girl. "Dead by the bloodbath!" Rita cries, and I try not to pay attention. Every minute I spend with these people is making me feel more and more negative; something I didn't know could be achieved right now, considering where I'm headed.

6 is better, but only a little bit. This time the tributes are stronger and slightly healthy-looking, but the girl bursts into tears the moment she's on the stage and the boy just looks as though he received a recent blow to the head. _Well, you can't really blame him…_

I am just considering a possible list of ways to get myself out of watching the rest of the recaps when the feed turns to District 7. As I see the town square, I can't help but be amazed. It's so… green. Not like your everyday yellow-green grass as it dies in the noon heat, but strong, healthy green. Beyond the square, on the horizon, are trees - stretching out as far as the eye can see, all this spectacular new shade of color I'd never quite believe unless I saw it in real life.

But, just as I'm staring intently at the screen, the shot changes. The camera is now panned in on a girl, and I realize she must've been called. My attention recedes slightly, only to return to its state of heightened alertness. At first I can't understand what's so interesting about this girl until I realize - it's the way she's behaving.

In my 18 years of watching the Hunger Games, I have seen a lot of different reactions. Crying, trying not to cry, panicking, boasting, smirking, and almost anything in between. But her reaction is different; something I've rarely seen before. Her eyes are wide but she's not crying. Her face is shocked but not defeated. As she takes her spot on the stage and the suddenness of the moment begins to wear off, her face turns stony and impassive; determined. She holds herself up straight as the escort steps forward to choose a boy and I realize what it is that caught my attention.

Hope.

Not the arrogant, beaming hope of a career, but a silent, warm hope. It's like the kind of hope your parents give you when you tell them they're scared of the monster under the bed, and they check for you and tuck you in nice and tight before kissing your forehead and turning on the night light. It's a reassurance that, no matter what, you'll be alright.

But this girl was just chosen to fight to the death in an arena with 23 other teenagers - why on earth is she feeling hopeful?

I lose sight of her as the camera turns to a brawny, brutish boy that looks as though he could squash my head like a grape. Scowling softly, the boy goes up to join the girl up on the stage, moving in a manner that would indicate that all his body parts are made of sticks.

They show a shot of the girl, boy, and escort as the escort says some last words. My eyes flick curiously to look at the girl, wondering how she's coping after she's had a moment to realize what's about to happen to her. I'm not sure if I'm surprised to see her standing there, stiff as a board, staring straight ahead with an air of great stubbornness. Being a person possessing great stubborn abilities myself, I can't help but appreciate the gut she must have to be pulling this off. _She's already trying to win this thing,_ I realize, and I feel a brief flash of sympathy, quickly followed by pity. _All that… and she's probably going to die._

District 8 appears on the screen in a sudden change of hue, leaving me blinking rapidly as I gaze into the dry, dead green spectrum colors that are often associated with cornfields.

The rest of the program drags on, slowly and painfully as more innocent children are sentenced to death. Some of them handle it better than others (like a dreamy sort of girl from 8) while others react as badly as you would expect (the boy from 12). When it is finally over, I waste no time before excusing myself and retiring to my bedroom.

I put on a pair of pajamas I find in my dresser and lay down in my bed, doing my best to ignore the constant moving and shaking of the train. I quickly grow irritated as I toss and turn, knowing desperately that I will need my sleep but unable to get comfortable enough to relax.

As I wait for sleep, I can't help but think of all the other tributes that got called today. Where are they now? Are they having trouble sleeping as well? What about that girl - the one from District 7. I'm having trouble imagining her - all I can seem to remember is her expressionless face and brown eyes. Somehow the thought of her sternly powerful gaze helps me to relax; the sheer force of her hope almost making me feel hopeful as well.

 _That's stupid,_ I think lazily, just as my consciousness is starting to slip away. _I already know it's a lost cause. I'm not going to go and get myself all worked up just because some girl I don't know from a district I don't come from doesn't want to give up._

Because right now, I know what's going to happen, and I'm fine with it. But if these are going to be my last two weeks alive, I'm sure as hell not going to waste them making myself believe that I have the slightest chance of being the unfortunate soul to make it out alive.

 **Unless you haven't guessed, this is going to be you typical, drawn-out, angsty Hunger Games romance. Hoping to add some good character development in there somewhere; not sure how that's going yet as I'm only on Chapter 7 myself. I like to keep a few chapters between myself and the update.**

 **Anyway I'd like to give a quick shout out to my girlfriend at this moment – I'm not sure if she'll ever read this, but to all of you who have she is one of the people that gets me off my ass and inspires me to write. She's an aspiring author and is the most** _ **wonderful**_ **person** _ **ever**_ **so feel free to thank her when you go to write a review!**

 **Speaking of such, please feel free to favorite this story/leave a comment; the commitment I'm trying to make this summer is big and intimidating and knowing that someone's day has benefited from a chapter I wrote is the most wonderful way to help me give you constant updates! I love you guys so help me help you out!**

 **Anyway it is late and I have no idea what to do for Chapter 7 so I should probably go brainstorm. I'll probably be updating in a few days or so; so until then, have a nice day! I'll be back soon with more sappily-written multi-chapter goodness!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Man, writing is hard! Especially when you can just as easily spend your summer doing absolutely nothing! Anyway, here is a chapter! I feel like this is going to be one of those fics that take a while to get each chapter up…**

 **Chapter Two**

 **Hermione's POV**

My head spins and reels in a desperate attempt to understand what is happening; it's almost as if my brain has detached from my body as it refuses to provide the information I require. I keep thinking the same things over and over again in a never-ending cycle of fear and pain. _I'm shaking… I'm scared… I want to go home._

I close my eyes tightly and force myself to take a few breaths - just the way my parents used to tell me to when I would start getting too worked up about my schoolwork. The memory of my parents triggers a sour spot in my imagination and suddenly I see them, sitting on the couch, watching the old television with blank, teary eyes, and I can't handle it. I shake harder, my breaths coming fast and shallow.

"Hermione Granger?"

I look around wildly, terrified of what I might see, only to find a normal-looking woman in the doorway of the room. She enters, a polite smile on her face. I mirror it in an attempt at masking my current mental state. "Yes?" I say, shaking her hand as she offers it.

She takes the chair across from me, looking truly delighted to be in my company. "I'm Tonks, and I'll be your stylist."

I can't help but blink in surprise, looking at her skeptically. When I've seen Capital stylists in the past, they have usually been grotesquely modified to fit the newest fashion trend. But Tonks seems relatively normal for someone from the Capital - apart from her bright pink hair and a tattoo of stars and a moon on the side of her neck, she could've been just another person from District 7. The thought makes me homesick and I try to direct myself away from it.

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss-"

"Oh, please," Tonks says, blushing slightly. "Just Tonks."

"Pleasure to meet you, Tonks."

She must know I don't really mean that, but she takes the compliment without contradiction. "Right, as much as I would love to get to know you a little first, I'm afraid we have to get right down to business. It took them a little longer to clean you up than we originally imagined, so we're already a little behind and we want you ready for the opening ceremonies."

I nod silently, a dead feeling expanding to my chest at the thought of it all. I'm just about to let it consume me when Tonks stands, addressing me. "Well, coming or not, kiddo?" She gives me a real smile and I feel my own lips struggling against one for the first time since the reaping.

"Sure."

/

"For years stylists have been dressing of the tributes from 7 as trees," Tonks explains as she paces, casting anxious glances at me from time to time. "I wanted to try something a little different - something that would make you stand out to the audience. Maybe it will, maybe it won't, we can't be sure, but I am positive it will be a change from the last few years."

I try to smile reassuringly at her, wishing she would just get to the point. Usually, in District 7, it is too cold to be wearing such thin, useless clothing as the bathrobe I have on, and my skin is crawling from the uneasy feeling of being exposed like this. Whatever monstrosity of a costume she has planned for me has to be better than this.

I miss the last words of her speech but continue to nod and half-smile, hoping she doesn't notice or get offended. She doesn't and I'm greatly relieved. "So, I present to you," she says dramatically as the stylists move in to reveal a… well, I think it's a dress.

At least the base of it is a dress, put together with the illusion of many tiny leaves. It starts with a ghastly green-tan color down the middle, the tan part, I assume, to help blend into my skin. As it spreads to the arms and sides the color becomes a darker shade of green, dark enough to remind me of the trees back home in District 7. I allow myself a pang of grief before I keep looking.

The dress is held into shape by twig-looking branches that seem like they're going to work around my arms to my neck and a few vines drip from the leaves at random. Overall, I must say, it is quite beautiful, and, if anything, a little different from the average tree costume. It has more the feel of a tree goddess than a tree.

"What do you think?"

"I think it's… brilliant," I say, no other words coming to me. "It's… a lot of detail…"

"It's not finished," Tonks says, apparently pleased by what little praise I gave her. "We have a few more plans for you before we're finished."

/

Maybe it was because the makeover squad (or whatever they called it) already took a look at me beforehand, but getting myself dressed for the parade is a lot less time-consuming than ripping out every spare hair from my body.

"Tada!" Tonks exclaims as I examine myself in the mirror. "All finished! Not bad, either!"

No, it isn't bad at all. The dress is a bit revealing for my liking, but that is something I will just have to learn to live with for now. The fabric, upon closer look, not only resembles that of leaves, but has a faint glimmer to it that will give it a shimmering look in the bright lights. The twigs wrap naturally around my arms and the vines fall gracefully from my sides in such a natural fashion that I can't help but be deeply impressed.

To add to that Tonks has had highlights of green to my already brown hair, letting me to keep the wild, frizzy look as it passes off as part of my costume. "It'll wash off tomorrow," she promises as I touch my head tentatively. _Oh thank Merlin…_

I'm not really sure what she did with my face – due to my lack of experience of anything in the fashion world – but whatever it was she did a nice job. It's a very subtle difference, but it's noticeable that she meddled. My face is free of any blemishes and much more healthy-toned than usual. My eyeshadow is dark and green, highlighted in black, giving me a slightly menacing look. My lips are a deep color conjured from a brutish mix of brown and a hint of red. I'm busy trying to decide what this adds to my costume when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"I almost forgot," Tonks holds out her hand to show me a small, bronze locket that fits perfectly in the palm of her hand. It's made of bronze with a picture of a rose embossed on the front, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. I gasp and take it from her, my heart pounding against my ribcage and my throat tightening. I'd thought I'd forgotten it on the train.

"Thank you," I whisper, blinking rapidly – I'm sure it would be a very bad thing for me to cry right now. "Thank you so much."

"The costume is only as valuable to the audience as it is to the person wearing it," Tonks says, gently taking the locket's chain and helping it over my obnoxious hair. After a moment she finally works it over and under and rests the locket against the exposed flat of my chest. "I feel, in this case especially, that it should reflect not only who you're going to need to be in these next few weeks, but also who you really are. Sure, I can't do much about that because I don't have the time to make those adjustments for the tributes, but I always try to add in their token."

I give her a grateful, watery smile that she seems to take as a form of highest achievement. Grinning proudly, her eyes bright, she pats me on the back. "Whatever happens, I'm proud of you kiddo. I think you've got a real shot out there."

The subtle reminder of the upcoming games sends whatever happiness I had a moment ago to the pit of my stomach. But, not wishing to ruin Tonks' mood, I put on a smile and nod.

/

Everything is so loud and noisy that I can't make any sense of it. All I can hear are the people screaming, loud music, applause, and my mentor's voice – a stern woman called McGonagall – echoing inside my head: _"Smile and wave, but not too broadly. You want to show them that you're pleasant, but not friendly."_

I try to do as she instructed, but it's quite difficult considering the blinding lights all around us. As far as I can tell it's going well, but I can't decide if they're cheering for me, the nearly naked Viktor Krum beside me, or for the people around us.

No matter what happens in the end, I am simply glad that I'm not Viktor. It is quite obvious how uncomfortable he feels, going from bundling up for the weather to bearing skin in front of so many people. I don't get a good chance to inspect his outfit, but I can tell for sure it doesn't involve much of a shirt. Nonetheless, I can see him feigning a smile that mysteriously resembles a grimace as he waves one of his awkwardly large hands.

We reach the circle and the president – a tall, pale man with narrow eyes and a missing nose – steps out onto an overlooking balcony to address us. Even with the hushing sounds coming from the audience I still have trouble hearing what he is saying and, eventually, I just give up entirely. I eventually end up watching the screen that is flashing from chariot to chariot, taking the opportunity to see who I'm going to be up against. After all, if I want to make it out, I'm going to have to be prepared to use the skills I have to go against these people.

The screen displays two dark-skinned tributes that are looking up with stony expressions at the president. I only have time to assume they're from 11 before it switches to another pair; a fit boy and a pretty girl. They are wearing slick and smooth armor that almost resemble that of an automobile. Just as I decide that they're from District 6, the feed changes again.

This time it's obvious that they people I'm looking at are careers – they are standing tall and confident, not at all daunted by the crowds upon crowds of people fawning over them. The girl is short and is smiling in a cringe-worthy manner while they boy is the complete opposite. He is at least several inches taller than her and is not looking at the president. He looks tired – almost bored – as he sits there, tapping his fingers against the railing he's holding onto. He's wearing some sort of armor that makes me suspect that he's from District 2. The girl beside him elbows him in the arm – wants him to pay attention, I suspect – and the boy purses his lips before obediently tilting his head upward in the manner a small child might when their parent tells them to pay attention and stop slouching in church.

The screen changes and anthem blares overhead, leaving me temporarily disoriented. It's only as the chariots begin to move that I see my own face on the screen overhead and I realize that I'm smiling. _Why?_ I wonder, and it takes me to realize that it was because of that boy. His absolute nonchalance of everything that's happening makes me feel simultaneously amused and irritated. _Of course he's indifferent, he's a career! He's more likely to win on his own than the rest of us are together!_

But even as I think it, I feel wrong. No, it just wasn't right. It wasn't quite an 'I'm bored' attitude as it was an 'I don't care' one. _But why wouldn't he care? Doesn't he want to g0 home?_

 _Of course he does,_ I assure myself. _He's just a career and he wants to get this over with so he_ can _go home._

But, as we pull into the great doors of the Training Center, I can't help but be troubled by the boy's attitude. Even more worrisome to me, however, is _why do I care?_ I'm going to be fighting this boy in a week – whether he cares about going home or not does not matter to me, because nothing matters to me as much as making it out of these games alive.

 **Thank you for reading! If you like this chapter, please feel free to follow/favorite and, even better, leave a review! Hearing feedback is always a great motivation to writers so I hope and look forward to what you guys have to say!**


	3. Chapter 3

… **I've had chapters 3-6 waiting in google docs to be published and I'm really feeling like writing… please don't judge me…**

 **Chapter Three**

 **Ron's POV**

"Godammit!" I yelp as hot water sprays down from the shower, burning my skin and making me want to crawl into a bucket of ice. Trying to tactfully read the many buttons from the wrong side of the bath _and_ evade the scalding water is not working. Scowling, I grab hold of the railing on either side of me and lean as far forward as I can, pressing random buttons and hoping that one of them will cool it down.

The heat misting into my face becomes a little less intense and I take the opportunity to dodge to the other side to get a good look at the controls. _There must be a hundred buttons!_ I think in exasperation, trying to read them all at the same time. _And we could only afford a bath at the Burrow!_

Remembering my old home on the outskirts of District 2 makes me feel homesick and I try to push it out of my mind. This works out much better once the shower starts to cooperate and I allow myself to settle beneath its warm, calming stream. _And the best part is I don't have to hurry. I can stay in here all night if I want to, no one can stop me!_

I take my sweet time until half an hour later, when a knock on the door rouses me from my blissful thoughts. "Dinner," Peter squeaks, and I curse under my breath. Why do they want me at dinner? Can't they just let me get gutted and get over it like everyone else?

I jump out of the shower and dry off with one of the towels, which just happens to be fluffier than anything else I have ever felt in my entire life. I must admit, if they're going to make me fight to the death, they're doing it right – good food, good shower, good flat, good everything! Almost makes it worth it, as far as I'm concerned.

I find a good-fitting jumper and a pair of jeans in the wardrobe and throw them on before casually strolling out of my quarters and into the dining area. There's a window just beside it that allows us to see the city. We are close enough to the bottom that I can almost make out the separate people walking down on the sidewalk below; I smile slightly.

I sit next to Lavender at the table. We are joined by our mentors and stylists. Ignoring the rest of the group, I eye an expensive-looking platter of dark meat. After everything that happened today, it's no surprise that I'm absolutely starving. What is a surprise, however, is when a pretty girl in a pure white suit sets a glass of Firewhiskey in front of me. I stare at it for a moment in shock, wondering what my mother would say if she saw this, but then I remember she can't. Chances are she won't really ever see me again; at least not up-close until they're delivering whatever's left of me back home for her to mourn.

With that pleasant thought I gulp down half the glass, trying not to choke as it burns in my throat and stomach. _Just have to get used to it,_ I tell myself. Hoping to wash down the bitter aftertaste, I take a few slices of meat and ask Lavender to pass me the potatoes and bread. If I'm going to die next week, I'm sure as hell not doing it on an empty stomach.

/

"And be sure to be up by breakfast!" my stylist – a barmy bird named Bellatrix LeStrange – barks from the end of the hall.

"No problem!" I say, my voice slightly slurred and interrupted by a hiccup as I smile back at her and Barty. "G'night!"

I stumble into my room, feeling dazed and giddy and finally understanding the meaning of the word 'tipsy'. I slump into my bed, not even bothering to put on pajamas, and grin up at the white ceiling above me, basking in the glow of my comfortably full stomach. _Maybe a little less on the Firewhiskey tomorrow,_ I think, giggling slightly to myself. _Yeah, don't wanna lose my edge. My sharp, cutting edge and stuff… like a knife. Yes, that's it! I'm a knife! Gotta remember that…_ the _knife!_

I sigh and crawl under the blankets, pulling them up to my shoulders and curling beneath them. It's so warm that I can't help but feel sleepy. _Training tomorrow,_ I think, my thoughts almost sing-songy in a drowsy sort of way. _'M finally gonna meet all the other careers… and maybe the brunette bird, too. That crazy one who think she's got a chance. I wanna meet her._

I had seen her at the tribute parade and had been having trouble keeping her out of my mind ever since. Of course, with my guards down, I could admit it wasn't only her hope I found intriguing – but she was absolutely beautifulin that costume. I mean, not in the kind of 'I would like to snog you as my dying wish' beautiful (though I wouldn't object) but more like an 'I want to stare at you' sort of.

Besides, even if she is snogging-beautiful, I can't let that distract me from what's going on right now. I'm going to die and even I'm not low enough to sink to the 'end-of-the-world' speech. And what good would it do in the end? None. Because either way we're going to be trying to kill each other by the end of the month. In fact, that's exactly why it would be most harmful to even think about her as beautiful, because I can't afford to feel something for these people. It's too risky and it's most certainly not worth the pain.

But, as I drift off to sleep, I can't help the goofy grin spread across my face as I remember her: stood upon her chariot like the goddess she looked to be, and I feel a glow in my chest. It takes my Firewhiskey-influenced mind a moment to extinguish it, but not quickly enough to smother the hope before it has a chance to grow into a flame. _Not today, not ever,_ I tell myself.

/

I wake up slightly distressed the next morning, my dreams having been filled with shimmering green mists and soft, brown eyes blinking at me from the shadows. Now that any last traces of alcohol have left my system, I have time to scold myself for what I was thinking last night.

 _You bloody idiot! Beautiful? Snogging? Why would you even consider that? You don't know this girl! You might have to fight her!_ Kill _her! What's the matter with you?_

A lot of things, I realize, as my stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of fighting her. Or maybe that's its way of scolding me for eating such rich food last night? No, probably the first – come to think of it, I'm getting pretty hungry.

I get up and take a quick shower, pleased to figure it out a bit quicker this time. I brush my teeth and leave the bathroom smelling heavily of shampoo, and find an outfit of black pants and a burgundy shirt on my closet door. Putting them on, I leave my room. I am the first person out – one of the suited servants fills me a glass of pumpkin juice and offers me a variety of trays that could compete even with my mum's skill of cooking (though I wouldn't dare admit it out loud). Taking a large stack of pancakes and a scoop of scrambled eggs with bacon, I begin devouring the meal. After all, I have a long day ahead of me.

Lavender and Barty join me as I'm on my second plate of bacon and Rita comes along once I've gotten myself some toast. As much as I wish I could keep eating, I'm getting really full, and I'm forced to listen in on the conversation going on.

"Now, you know your main objectives," Barty is saying in his deep, scratchy voice. "Meet the others – learn your enemies. Buddy up with your other careers – it's the best chance you've got, trust me."

We acknowledge his words and I give my undivided attention to my once again full glass of pumpkin juice and help myself to one last pasty. Whereas some tributes from the other districts may be getting constant advice from their mentor's, Lavender and I have been training for this moment for years. We've been taught how to deal with this – what to expect; we've discussed strategies and meeting other people and making them trust you so often that there's no need to do it again. Frankly, we're about as prepared as anyone can get.

 _And that still leaves us with a 16% chance of survival, if we aren't counting all the other dunderheads in the arena._

Lavender and I finish our meals and head down to the training center where a woman pins the number 2 to our backs. Not acknowledging any of the other tributes, we make our way straight to where a pair of tributes with the number 4 on their backs are standing. "Hey," I say, going for an outward approach as Barty suggested. "I'm Ron and this is Lavender. Who are you?"

The boy from 4 looks at me curiously. He is a good few inches shorter than me and must be several pounds lighter, but he's still got a look to him that tells me he could knock me out before I realized what was happening. Straightening his round-rimmed glasses, he offers his hand hand. I extend mine to shake it. "Harry, Harry Potter, and this is Fleur Delacour." He motions to the girl beside him and she smiles at me, making butterflies erupt in my stomach.

"Well it's – er – it's good to meet you, Harry," I say, slightly astonished at my own stuttering. "So, where do you want to go first?"

Harry shrugs, looking around cautiously. "My mentor said - I mean, I think we should wait for District 1," he says, his face burning slightly. I don't understand what's so bad about letting it slip that he's taking advice from his mentor, but hey, it's not my place to judge.

A few moments of silence later, we are approached by a pair of tributes that so obviously hold the aura of careers that it is actually revolting. The boy is long and pointy, with sleek blonde hair, grey eyes, and a jutting chin. The girl is slightly more tan but still extremely arrogant, looking around at everyone as though she thinks she is better than all of them. It makes my stomach flip over and the food inside it feels bitter.

"You must be from 2 and 4," the boy drawls. He extends his hand, not like Harry did in a polite invitation, but as if he wishes to do us a sort of honor by allowing us to shake his hand. "I'm Malfoy. Draco, Malfoy."

I hide a snide comment under a large exhale as I introduce myself. "Ron Weasley."

Draco Malfoy raises an eyebrow, as if he is looking down upon a dead animal in the street. "Fascinating," he says, and it's probably the most sarcastic thing I've ever heard. He continues to introduce himself one-by-one to the others as the girl – Pansy Parkinson – follows suit with a disgusting sneer on her face.

There is a hushing from the middle of the crowd of tributes and a woman begins to speak – telling us all about the available resources and training activities that will take place here. I don't really listen; Barty's already told me what to do.

When we're dismissed, Malfoy looks around. "Girls will go with Pansy," he says sharply, as if he has some sort of authority over us. "Weasley, Potter, you'll come with me."

I glance at Harry and he shrugs in a 'who cares' sort of way. I nod at him, acknowledging his point, and we follow Malfoy over to the knife-throwing area.

As it turns out, Malfoy also really knows what he's doing. With every painfully accurate blow he gets at the stuffed dummies, the more I begin to feel like a stuffed dummy. _It will definitely be better to have him as an ally,_ I admit to myself begrudgingly. _No matter how much of a conceded pain-in-the-arse he is._

It's nearly half-an-hour till lunch when Malfoy points it out. "Who's that?" he asks.

"Who's who?" Harry and I say, almost together. I feel my ear tips burning.

"That girl – the ugly one that's staring at us."

Harry and I turn around almost in sync. The girl from 7 glances quickly to the edible plants station, her cheeks burning in embarrassment. "I'd reckon that's 7's girl," I say, hoping my ears aren't as red as they feel.

"Hmm. That's interesting. She was staring at you, Weasley."

I blink rapidly in surprise. "Me?"

"Yes. Why is that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," I admit truthfully. "Never seen her before today."

Malfoy narrows his eyes suspiciously and, with a little "Hmph!" turns away to stalk to the archery station. Harry and I follow him, but not before I cast one more glance at the 7 girl.

She's entirely consumed in her edible plants thing now, and I wait for a moment. Maybe it's just me, but was she looking at me from the corner of her eyes? _Don't be ridiculous!_ I scold myself. _Probably just a happy coincidence._

We join up with the girls for lunch. The District 1 kids' attitudes are so snobbish that I barely have any appetite (though I'm sure my extra-large breakfast also had something to do with that). After a long meal, we split up again and start looking for another section to dominate.

"She's still watching us," Draco growls half-way through Harry beating up a punching bag. I glance back to see the girl focusing on the camouflage station, her brow furrowed deep in concentration. "I don't know about you, Weasley, but the second we're in the arena," he slides a finger across his throat and I gulp. _I'm not so sure… she looks pretty involved in what she's doing…_

"I don't know, Malfoy. That's nearly a week away. How about I go over there and ask her flat out what her problem is?"

"Great idea," Malfoy says with the air of a father praising his young son. "You go do that. Potter and I will work on this. But I don't want to see you back here until you get that filthy dirt off our trail – it is rather distracting."

I nod and, feeling a strange mix of excitement and revulsion, make my way over to the girl from District 7.


	4. Chapter 4

**In writing Chapter Seven I realized that Lavender is a LITTLE (lot...) out of character so please forgive me! I do not think of her as a terrible she-demon from the pits of hell. She's a neat character. But for the sake of the story she's a bit... evil? Sorry to anyone who loves Lavender's character.**

 **Chapter Four**

 **Hermione's POV**

 _A bit more mud here… no, no that's all wrong! How does it look so unnatural-?_

"Uh, excuse me."

My head whips to the side and I blink in surprise as I see a pale, freckled face smiling tentatively at me, one large hand extended toward me. It takes me a few seconds to recognize his hair and realize he's the boy from 2. I try to think of a coherent thing to say, but my thoughts become muddled as my brain goes into overdrive examining him. _That's curious; he seems almost friendly. Why? Why is he so happy? Especially now? And why is he talking to me? And why… why are his eyes so blue?_

Realizing he is waiting for me to answer, I briskly say, "Hello," and move to shake his hand. Too late I remember I was just painting, and I end up getting mud and berry juice all over his hand. "Oh dear! I'm so sorry-"

"Oh, that's – it's alright," he mumbles, and his ear tips glow bright pink. He looks from his hand back up to me, a crooked, half-embarrassed smile crossing his face. "I – I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm Ron Weasley, from District 2."

I narrow my eyes. That's odd. But, unfortunately, I don't have time to question his motives – there are still a lot of stations I need to look at. I look away from him to wipe off my hands, saying, "Hermione Granger, District 7."

"Hermione?" he asks in astonishment.

I nod, starting to grow irritated. "Yes, and I suggest you stop gawping and get to the point."

There's a pause. "The point?"

"Obviously." I roll my eyes, not even trying to hide my annoyance. "Why are you speaking to me, District 2? What's your reason?"

His eyes narrow slightly and I can tell he's not happy with my attitude. _Great job, Hermione! First person you meet and you've made an enemy._

"I don't know, really. But that blonde guy over there – Malfoy – he told me to come tell you off for watching us."

My eyes widen and my face heats up. "I was not!" I say hotly, ignoring the little bug inside my head that tells me I am lying. _I was not 'watching' them; I simply glanced over from time to time._

And suddenly I remember why I was looking at them, and all I want to do is ask him why he seems so laidback – how can he be so happy and relaxed at a time like this because, even now, I can see it. It's as simple as the way he's standing – his arms crossed, shoulders hanging loosely, even in the way his eyes glow indignantly. If he was any other tribute, he wouldn't have approached me to begin with, but instead he is here, beside me, telling me that some guy named Malfoy is upset with me. _This gets more and more confusing every minute…_

He shrugs as if it isn't that big a deal. "Honestly, I don't care what you were or weren't doing. I'm just passing the message."

"Oh, I see. Following the leader, aren't you?" I really shouldn't be so rude, but my growing frustration and curiosity of him are making me irrational.

If anything, Ron Weasley from District 2 only seems bemused by my remark. His eyes narrow and he raises his brow at me, his lips curving delicately in the faintest trace of a smile. "What, not a good enough strategy for you? Too noble to partner with the strong guys?"

"If I'm going down, I'm taking my dignity with me," I say with a slight smirk.

Ron shrugs again, not seeming to disagree with my statement. A moment of silence passes before he says, "I've never really been the artistic type. Could you give me a hand with this camouflage thing?"

He sits down beside me and half of my brain screams _Yes!_ while the other counters _No!_ On one hand, I could get to know him; figure out why it is this whole process seems like another day at school to him. But, on the other, he's an enemy. Next week he's going to be trying to kill me; is it really that wise an idea to let him get too close?

"Why should I help you?"

He looks at me, slightly taken aback. His mouth opens slightly and his brow furrows as he tries to come up with a reason. "Well, I guess there isn't any good reason. But hey, if we're going to die, why not make a few friends while we still can?"

I gape at his bluntness. "If we're – why would you say that?!"

He blinks at me, as if it was the most obvious thing. "Because it's the truth."

"The truth?" I splutter. "Just because it's the truth doesn't mean you should go around saying it!"

He just shrugs at me again and I can feel the puzzle pieces beginning to fall into place. _So that's it… he simply does not care. But he can't do that! He's literally walking into the arena with a neon target painted on his chest! He'll be dead before the bloodbath begins!_

But, once again, the thought occurs to me: _Why do I care?_

 _I don't._

He clears his throat and I'm forced back into the present. "Right," I say. "Okay, fine. I'll help you." _He can't be going in without a fight – he must have some sort of strategy._

I lose my train of thought as he beams at me. "Great! So, how do I start?"

"Well, let's pretend we're in a forest setting," I say, forcing my gaze away from him. "There'll be a lot of browns and greens in that environment, so we should probably start there."

He leans past me to grab the dirt and water and I look away. "Okay, so I just mix it to get mud, right? Easy as that?"

"Not quite," I say, and I explain to him the different textures he would have to look for and which one would be the most realistic. After all, I figure, a little bit of camouflage training won't really do him much; even if he is good at it. He's much too big – it would take forever for him to find a place to camouflage himself, and that's considering a forest environment! _Who knows what'll happen if we get landed in the desert!_

"So like this?" he asks, presenting me with his mixture.

"Too much water," I say, adding another fistful of dirt for him. "It'll all just run off and leave you a filthy mess. Remember, texture is key."

"Texture is key," he mutters, stirring the dirt into the brown water. After a moment it gains a sandy, more saturated look. "How about now?"

"That'll do," I say, and he looks slightly put-off. "Now you'll just want to spread it over your skin." He begins taking dabs and putting it on his arm. "Not like that!" I groan. My natural impatience takes over and I forcefully push his hand aside and pull his arm closer. "You're trying to blend in with your surroundings, not stick out! You need to make it at least look realistic. Try wiping it, but not too roughly; you'll want a thicker layer to efficiently hide your skin, especially considering how pale you are."

I scoop a large dab of his mud onto my hand and begin running it over his arm, leaving a good layer of mud covering a large patch of freckles. As I look closer at his arm I see more freckles, sprinkled on his arms in such a manner that a chef might use when decorating his dessert with cinnamon.

 _Pay attention!_ I scold myself, angrily taking another dab of mud and covering the offending freckles. _They are freckles, just like the ones everyone else has! There is nothing special or different about these freckles._

"Er – should I – uh – should I try it, now?"

My head snaps up. Ron's ears are red again, the blush creeping down to his cheeks. "The painting," he says, as if he needs to clarify. "Should I try the painting, now?"

"Of course," I say hoarsely, suddenly releasing his arm from the fierce grip with which I had grabbed it. "I'm sorry, I just get really impatient-"

"Yeah," he says. His lips turn upward and he looks intently down at his arm, apparently giving all his attention to his current project. I feel my face heating up and try not to think about it; how I reached out and grabbed his arm as if he were just anyone.

 _But he's not just anyone! He's a tribute – a career, for that matter – and he doesn't even care! That makes him not only dangerous for himself, but for everyone even remotely close to him!_

And that is why it hurts to make friends, even if I do have a few days left to live. _He may be going down but there's no way he's taking me with him!_

"How's this?" He holds out one completely mud-covered arm to me and I offer him a small smile.

"That's very nice, Ronald."

His ears – having just started returning to their normal color – redden again. "Er – yeah. Ronald. Yeah. It's just – just Ron. But thanks."

I open my mouth to apologize when a loud ringing is heard, and a voice comes over the intercom telling us that it's time to start wrapping things up. "Well, good luck," I say instead, rushing off before he can offer me a farewell.

/

As I lay in bed that night, I can't help but feel slightly disturbed.

 _He doesn't care,_ I keep thinking. _He legitimately does not care if he makes it out – if he ever sees his loved ones ever again. How selfish must that make him? That he just wants to die without a second thought! That he doesn't even want to try! Not even for his family…_

 _Or maybe I'm the selfish one?_ I wonder, my head starting to ache with all this thinking. _Maybe because I'm still trying, I'm giving my family hope that can lead to nothing but hurt? Wouldn't it be worse? I told them I would do everything I could to make it out, so what if I don't? They know what I'm capable of when I set out on something, so if I don't make it back, won't that just hurt them more? Will it be worth it if my all just isn't enough?_

I curl more tightly under the blankets, trying to push the horrible thoughts out of my head. _No, Hermione,_ I tell myself. _Stop thinking, go to sleep. You do not care what happens to Ron and you can't let any sort of worry for him get in the way of you being healthy._

 _I can't._

With the day's exhaustion echoing in my mind, I settle myself into an uneasy, nightmare-ridden sleep, sure that when the next day comes, everything will make a little more sense.


End file.
